


A Kingdom Lost, A Kingdom Won

by fiftysevenacademics (rapiddescent)



Category: Richard II - Shakespeare, SHAKESPEARE William - Works
Genre: Anal Sex, Betrayal, Implied/Referenced Torture, Knifeplay, M/M, Making Up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-11
Updated: 2015-01-11
Packaged: 2018-03-07 04:23:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3161075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rapiddescent/pseuds/fiftysevenacademics
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aumerle longs to convince Richard that he remains loyal, in spite of his father's betrayal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Kingdom Lost, A Kingdom Won

**Author's Note:**

> There's some sex, but it's not as scary as the tags imply. There's reference to the possibility of torture, but no one is actually tortured.

Tiny tappings, drippings, crackings and other unfamiliar sounds of the night at Conwy Castle keep Aumerle awake. The lumpy mattress and dubious stability of the bed frame don't help much either. A breeze blows in off the water and, although the night is far warmer than what Aumerle has known on the ship from Ireland, he buries his head under the blankets and curls into a ball. The cold settling in his bones has nothing to do with the balmy summer weather, or even, the rudimentary furnishings of a room hastily prepared by hosts who did not expect royal guests. No, the cold he feels is the steel blade of the sword Richard held to his face, while gulls cried over the surf.

Sailors rowed them to shore in longboats. Richard leapt from the prow and pulled his boots off, kissing the salty sand and blessing the English soil with his sacred hand. They achieved a small measure of victory in Ireland, and Richard writhed like a pagan priest in triumph against the fertile earth. 

"She receives him eagerly," Aumerle thinks, watching Richard, prone upon the ground, and wishing for a moment that he were made of dirt instead of flesh and blood. And then, in the midst of Richard's reunion with his realm, Scroop arrived with news that washed over them like an angry wave.

"Bolingbroke has returned and the entire country has joined him against you. Bushy, Green, and the Earl of Wiltshire have paid for their loyalty with their heads," said Scroop.

Richard covered his mouth and backed away, his horror flowing like a river toward Aumerle. He collapsed on the sand, crawling on his knees like a baby. Aumerle wanted to hold Richard, stop his frenetic movement around the beach by pressing him against his chest and running his fingers through his flowing hair. He launched into a long, rambling rant about graves, worms, and epitaphs, pointing at the sand and clutching at his crown until Aumerle thought his heart would burst.

"My father has forces! Ask about him!" Aumerle reminded Richard. Everyone else deserted, but surely, his father, York, had not. 

"York has joined with Bolingbroke," Scroop says.

Richard struck Aumerle twice on the shoulder with his fist.

"What say you now? What comfort have we now?"

"My liege, one word!" Aumerle said, with more pain in his voice than he could ever say in words, but Richard didn't hear it. He pointed his sword in Aumerle's face.

"He does me double wrong that wounds me with the flatteries of his tongue." 

Richard rode alone at the front of the small procession to Conwy Castle. Aumerle prodded his horse to a trot to reach his side, but was sent back by a guard without a word from Richard. He rode at the end of the line, the sun glinting off of Richard's crown, the closest contact he was allowed. Richard dined alone in his room, and did not send for Aumerle.

Aumerle pulls the blanket off his head and lets the cool night air dry some moisture forming in his eye. He tells himself it's dust from the unused mattress, but when he closes his eyes again, sees Richard pointing a sword at his eyes, and feels a connection running from his gaze, through the blade and into the hands holding its hilt. He imagines himself traveling through Richard like a dragon, devouring fear and any thought of worms or epitaphs until he gets to the heart, in which he simply dissolves and relieves Richard's grief with the dissolution of his soul.

He rubs his shoulder where Richard hit him. There is no bruise, but he can still feel the impression of his fist as clearly as the instant it happened. He fears it will never go away, and the more he rubs it, the more he remembers the moment. His father has abandoned Richard, but he has not. Why can't Richard understand that? He has to understand.

Aumerle lights a candle in the embers of the fire. He gingerly finds his way down the corridor to the room that he knows must be Richard's because the young, handsome, dark-skinned soldier who has often watched over them on their travels has nodded off on the floor, spear propped lazily against the door handle. He jolts awake to the sound of footsteps, but yields when he recognizes Aumerle, who is a frequent nighttime visitor of the king. He bows and lets Aumerle turn the handle.

He opens it slowly, so the hinges don't squeak, in case Richard is asleep, but he is not. He kneels before a crucifix placed on a table, and illuminated by several candles, his hands folded in prayer. His hair falls in loose waves around his aquiline profile, with closed eyelids and lips forming silent Latin words. 

Candlelight catches in the gold threads embroidered on his robe and his whole body looks soft and shimmery.

"My liege," he calls softly from the entrance.

Richard opens his eyes and turns his head in slight surprise. Aumerle thinks he sees a trace of happiness when Richard recognizes him, but when he speaks, his voice is hard.

"Aumerle."

Aumerle waits in the doorway, pulse ragged, while Richard looks him up and down sharply. The king could have him arrested, tortured, and executed for an intrusion like this, given what has happened, and the look on his face suggests that might be what he's considering. He gestures disdainfully.

"Very well, you may enter."

Aumerle closes the door behind him, but waits in place for an invitation to approach the king.

"Have you come to kill me?" His voice has the high, firm tone he uses when giving orders to a retainer.

The words flay Aumerle more cleanly than a torturer ever could. The pain in his throat does not permit speech, and the best he can manage is to turn his stricken face toward Richard and let his wet, green eyes meet the glittering brown eyes on the other side of the room.

"Come here, cousin."

Aumerle crosses the room, avoiding the hawk-like glare of his lord, and stops an arm's length away, to show he means no harm.

Richard keeps the distance, and paces around him in a circle, examining him from every angle, then moves closer, and feels Aumerle's body for weapons. His palms move down Aumerle's torso, using his long fingers to prod inside all the folds of his tunic, firmly enough to feel the outline of the muscles underneath. He bends and slides his hands inside his shoes, then runs them up his legs, lingering a bit longer than necessary on his chiseled thighs and pushing them apart slightly, before sliding his fingers upwards, to fondle the flesh between his legs. The king interrogates him with his hands, and the only answer he requires is compliance. Aumerle stands rigidly, reluctant to flinch or make a sound, even as his body starts to respond to the touch.

"Perhaps you mean to use poison, then. Or is deceiving my love the only poison you need?"

Aumerle falls to his knees.

"My lord! Forgive me for my father's wrongs. They are his alone, not mine."

"A traitorous father raises traitorous sons."

"Were I the Duke of York, I would raise ten thousand men and march them to the ends of the earth for you."

"As you are, you are useless to me."

Aumerle presses his forehead against Richard's feet, his black hair like bands of velvet against the grey suede boots, his body wracked with sobs.

"Richard... please!"

Richard steps back.

"Stop that and stand up," he says with a mixture of disgust and pity.

Aumerle rises and wipes his nose with his hand. Richard stands so close he can feel his breath and the heat from his body. 

"Do all traitors teach their sons to grovel, or is that how you will betray me?"

Fresh tears start to trickle over Aumerle's cheekbones, but Richard continues.

"You love me, but what use to me is the love of a trai---"

Aumerle can't take anymore and claps his hand over Richard's mouth without thinking what he's doing. A look of shock comes over Richard and for an instant, Aumerle is certain that his bold action means he's as good as dead. Then, he feels Richard's lips part, and something wet and soft swipe his palm. The king licks his hand and nuzzles almost imperceptibly against it, as though starving for its touch.

Aumerle removes his hand, jaw slack with surprise and a tear still hanging in the corner of his eye. Richard pulls him closer and kisses him deeply. His hands once again rove over Aumerle's body, but this time, underneath his shirt, fingers circling his nipples before moving quickly over his pectorals and down into the curly hair inside his hose. Aumerle's fear and desire follow Richard's hands into his cock, which stiffens as Richard's fingers close around it and stroke, while he kisses Aumerle again. 

He undoes his hose and tells Aumerle to remove his shirt. He leads him to the bed, bends him over the side of it and enters him all at once, so that Aumerle cries out a little and clutches the bedspread before relaxing into Richard's thrusts. Richard's fingers slither through Aumerle's hair, twining big clumps of it around them. Each time he pushes in, Aumerle's head is jerked back, exposing his throat, and then, he feels sharp, cold metal against it. 

Richard holds a small knife to Aumerle's throat and has paused, still inside him.

"If you mean to betray me, I will kill you right now."

"I am yours, and yours alone. I love you, my lord. I would never hurt you."

Richard drops the knife and fucks him even harder, without releasing his hair, until his orgasm hits them both like lightning, and then they lay on the bed. Aumerle feels small and grateful, unsatisfied, but pleased to be back in Richard's good graces. Or so he hopes. He opens his eyes to find Richard watching him. 

"I love you, too, Aumerle. If I lose England but keep your love, I shall rule the biggest kingdom in the world."


End file.
